A Lot of That Going Around
by Katie Duggan's Niece
Summary: Three-course GALEX meal, whipped up after episode 2, series 3, and spiced with adult themes, garnished with a dollop of angst. Contains absolutely no Keats, nothing post-E2. Alex has a date at the Tate, but just what is Gene playing at? AU. Complete.
1. The Symptoms

**It's happened again. The muse, that minx, has interrupted my writing and rewriting of upcoming Cranford, Persuasion, and A2A chapters and stories to bring you this little offering, the idea for which came to me on a very wet Tuesday afternoon in the middle of Nuclear Security Summit-gridlocked Washington, D.C. I simply refused to watch any episode beyond the second of series 3 until I could finish my rewrites.  
**

**At times the characters and their back stories, or what I imagined were their back stories, took over the narrative. I struggled miserably with the tone and content of the following, and, as always, would welcome your comments, questions, and reviews.**

First, the customary disclaimer: I do not own Alex Drake, Gene Hunt, Luigi, Ray Carling, any and all figures connected with **Ashes to Ashes**, or the song lyrics quoted. No copyright infringement is intended.

Dedicated to the late Meinhardt Raabe, for reasons that will become clear.

* * *

"You don't fool me... All Englishmen, in the art of seduction, are pathetic. No passion." Luigi to Gene, **Ashes to Ashes**, series 1, episode 6

* * *

**A Lot of That Going Around**

**Chapter 1: The Symptoms  
**

Oh. _Oh._ She hadn't expected it to be like this.

Of course she had acted purely on a whim, with no contemplation of the consequences, or of the past. In fact she had blissfully shed all her inhibitions and burdens, from endless paperwork to looming dark thoughts to the lingering notion that she might try to raise the Guv's pulse a bit, and had simply gone ahead and done what she wanted.

And now, standing before the mirror in her flat, Alex realized she had been right. This was a minor triumph. No, make that a _major_ triumph. She looked amazing.

She ran her fingers over the bodice, designed to wrap round the curves of her upper body, accentuated by a deep V neckline, cut just low enough to be provocative but still ladylike. The skirt slid gracefully over her hips and finished in a swirl just past the tops of her boots. Of course the boots made it all look just a touch Bohemian, perhaps, but the dress was so flattering, and so very feminine, that Alex couldn't resist doing a little pirouette in front of her mirror.

"Just what the doctor ordered," she murmured, studying her reflection.

_The doctor_. She had to smile at that. He would notice she was a woman, even if Gene Hunt had started looking elsewhere for his harem.

* * *

Perhaps it was a bit unfair of her to associate the Gene Genie with harems. Firstly, the Guv was not exactly collecting concubines, and secondly, he hadn't entirely escaped the evolutionary process, if his treatment of Shazzer was any indication. Over time she'd risen in his estimation -- from "lobotomized Essex girl" to smart little plod, then to candidate for CID. It was definitely progress.

Of course Gene Hunt was still Neanderthal in other respects, but not without a degree of old-fashioned, and rather disarming, honor. He hadn't, for instance, let that rapacious brunette at the speed-dating session penetrate his armor -- to his credit, Alex thought. It really wasn't all about the sex.

But then Elaine Downing had made her move, and everything had changed. Apparently Gene's wish list -- "maid in the living room, cook in the kitchen, whore in the bedroom" -- hadn't put her off; in fact, quite the reverse. Alex was still trying to erase from her brain the image of the blonde in full frontal liplock with him at Luigi's, and had pretended not to notice when, back at Fenchurch East, Gene sometimes pulled out the Crescent Moon Dating Service card and studied it, as though looking for clues.

And he hadn't stopped with just examining Elaine's business card. No, Gene had actually phoned the predatory cow, who made good on her threat of a date. _Gratis_, of course. Ray had been certain to tell Chris all about it when Alex was in earshot.

A real mate, Ray.

* * *

Not long after Gene had begun squiring Yente the Matchmaker around town, Alex found a prospect of her own, most unexpectedly, right at the Met, and in the Coroner's Office, of all places.

He was one of the younger pathologists, even if he did already have a touch of grey in his hair. It suited him, though, and so did his sense of humor, no doubt an occupational necessity. And his very name had been a conversation-starter –- James Coburn.

"Like the actor?" had been the first words out of Gene's mouth. "**The Magnificent Seven**? **The Great Escape**? **In Like Flint**?"

"Guilty as charged," James had said, with a self-deprecating smile. "No relation, of course."

"A pity, that," Gene had said before turning away.

Then James had exchanged a look, and a very different smile, with Alex. She had felt the frisson between them, and was unsurprised when, about a week later, he employed one pretense or other to stop by Fenchurch East.

He had walked in just as Chris had tossed something into the rubbish bin with a clang, and James, without missing a beat, intoned, "Bring out your dead," in a spot-on Eric Idle impression. After Alex had stopped laughing she'd introduced James round, and been particularly pleased with the way he'd treated Shazzer -- as a colleague, and without so much as the suggestion of condescension. Truth to tell, it made a nice change to have another man about who didn't actually drag his knuckles along the ground.

Not long afterwards James had called Alex, and she'd agreed to meet him the following Saturday afternoon. She didn't mention it to the Guv, of course, but still he got wind of it, and gave her his own inimitable blessing.

"Good luck to you, Bolls. Mind you, can't say he'll know what to do with a bird who's still got a pulse."

* * *

On Saturday Alex felt confident, light-hearted, as she ran down the stairs. She looked wonderful, she was ready to have fun, and she was meeting a man who could string two sentences together _and_ make her laugh -- an astonishing prospect, enough to make her giddy.

The plan was to take in the Peter Blake retrospective at the Tate, then go out for a walk -- it was a beautiful day -- and see if an adventure overtook them.

At least that had been the plan.

* * *

Alex had reminded herself not to say _Tate Britain_, assuming that blurting out the wrong name might be the only awkwardness to present itself that afternoon. But it was going into the Tate itself that proved surprisingly difficult, for when Alex arrived at the entrance, she had a sudden memory of Mum walking alongside her into the gallery, and could feel the pressure of her hand, hear the sound of her voice.

_We'll go for ice cream afterwards. Would you like that?_

"Alex. Alex, are you all right?"

"What? No -- no, I'm fine." She had shuddered, as though with cold. "It's just been a long time. And I've been looking forward to this," she added unnecessarily.

"Good. Shall we --"

"Yes."

Alex was seized by an impulse to take James's arm, though somehow it seemed the wrong moment, and he seemed the wrong man, for such a gesture. What could she say, after all -- _Hold my hand; I'm missing my mum_? Still, maybe he _wasn't_ the wrong man; he seemed the sensitive type -- modern enough, at least for the 1980s -- and his company might prove refreshing, perhaps even healing.

That what was she told herself as they proceeded onwards. But she did not take his arm.

* * *

She'd felt such ease in his presence -- at Fenchurch East, even at the Coroner's Office -- but all of that melted away once they were apart from colleagues and left to themselves. In fact their entire visit to the Tate seemed to consist of circling about each other, speaking in non sequiturs, coming up against uncomfortable silences.

_We'll go for ice cream afterwards. Would you like that?_

"Alex?"

"What? I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you just said."

"I was only suggesting that you might like a cup of tea -- or coffee, perhaps. I know a place that has the most amazing gateaux --"

"Right. Coffee. If you'd like." She would keep an open mind, draw him out, get him talking -- a reasonable plan, it seemed.

She did not stop to think she might want him to listen to her.

* * *

An hour or so later, Alex was suffering the effects of a too generous infusion of caffeine and the tedium of nonstop nodding and smiling. James had gone on at some length about _his _life, _his_ work, _his_ interests, _his_ family, and not so much as asked a question of her, aside from ascertaining whether she'd like tarte tatin or Black Forest gateau with her coffee.

No, that was unfair. Once he had asked about her family. It had been when they were emerging from the Tate, and Alex had again thought of Mum, how she'd loved the place, loved taking Alex there -- in fact, to any museum. Rather wistfully Alex had mentioned as much to James, and he'd asked if her mother had died.

But when Alex had said yes, he hadn't pursued the subject further. In fact, she couldn't remember if he'd even made a response of any kind --_ I'm sorry_,_ I'm so sorry._ Decent people said things like that. Maybe you stopped caring if all you saw were dead people.

No, she was being unfair, terribly unfair. Death in the family wasn't exactly the stuff of first-rate first-date conversation, even if you were a pathologist.

* * *

After two cups of excellent coffee, a prolonged but unconsummated flirtation with a chocolate gateau that seemed to be calling her name, and a verbal CV from James -- covering everything between conception and career advancement, she thought snottily -- Alex was in the midst of a caffeine buzz and a raging internal point-counterpoint dialogue.

He was the nicest, most intelligent man she'd met in a great while. _He wasn't even good company, not really, not the way this day was turning out._

Maybe he was only nervous. _Maybe he was only a self-absorbed wanker._

He obviously liked and respected her. _He obviously wanted to get into her knickers._

Maybe she had been glued to everyone in CID too long and was flummoxed by the presence of a bona fide evolved man._ Maybe the Guv was right; James had spent too much time performing postmortems and didn't know what to do with a living, breathing woman._

Maybe she should wait and see how a second date went. _Maybe she should jump in a taxi, alone, then go out and get thoroughly pissed._

* * *

In the end there _was_ a taxi, only it wasn't coming for her, just swerving past them. The rain had begun to fall while they were having coffee, and they'd come outside to find puddles everywhere -- first the one that Alex had stepped into in her beautiful boots, and then another, right in path of the taxi, which had produced a splash, leaving her almost completely soaked.

James emerged none the worse for wear from the whole business -- in fact he only looked charmingly windswept -- and was kind enough not to make any rude remarks at the unpleasant noises Alex's boots were making with each step she took, or to leer at the way her lovely and now very damp blue dress was clinging to her body. Instead he had rather gallantly led Alex to shelter beneath an awning.

Once there, though, he suddenly turned to her and brushed the damp hair from her forehead and, before Alex knew it, brought his face within inches of hers. In another lifetime it might have seemed an incredibly romantic gesture, but just then it seemed wrong -- incredibly, horribly wrong -- that he was about to kiss her.

She wasn't meant to feel lonely, not when he was touching her.

* * *

"I'm sorry." She heard herself laugh. "Sorry. I was just -- I mean, I wasn't ready -- I'm sorry." She laughed again.

He drew back a little, smiled. "Sorry. Should have given you fair warning.

"Well, shall we be getting back?" he added, briskly, before stepping out from under the awning to hail yet another passing taxi.

_Well, that was that_, thought Alex. Just as well, though. _We weren't going anywhere, not really. _She stepped out into the rain once again. James was again smiling at her, reaching out to take her hand -- firmly, but tenderly -- helping her inside the taxi, sliding in next to her.

_Oh, my God._ He'd entirely misunderstood what she'd meant, that she wasn't just embarrassed or shy or caught off-guard. Still, what could she say to him now? _I'm sorry; you've got it all wrong. I have absolutely no intention of shagging you, this afternoon or in the foreseeable future_? A bit cold, that. _That is not what I meant at all_? Dear God, she was quoting Eliot to herself. A fat lot of good that was going to do when she had to think of something she might say aloud.

* * *

Over James's protestations, Alex insisted that her clothing was nearly dry, that she didn't need to run up to her flat to change. She had put the dress on for his sake, but she wasn't about to let him upstairs and give him the chance to take it off her. That, in fact, would be a double opportunity -- to establish his credentials as a nice, helpful bloke _and_ get into her knickers. No way, Jose. Or Diego, in this case.

Best to keep this on neutral turf, namely safely downstairs at Luigi's, where they'd have a nice, civilized glass of wine -- at her suggestion, of course -- and then she'd mutter some rubbish about how much fun they'd had and how they'd have to do it again, and then she'd send him on his way.

Politely.

That had been the plan, but Alex had not counted on Luigi's reaction when she walked into the restaurant with James. For a moment she thought she saw sorrow, even disappointment, cross the Italian's face, but within moments he had assumed his customary demeanor and was beaming at both of them, and whisking them towards a cozy little corner.

Of course James was equally pleasant to Luigi -- he _would_ be bloody nice to everyone, wouldn't he? -- and before Alex knew what was happening, he'd gone beyond ordering wine and requested a starter, and then insisted on ordering one for her as well.

And Luigi -- dear, matchmaking Luigi, who had always watched over her like a guardian angel -- proved oblivious to all of Alex's meaningful gazes and subtle head-shaking as he fluttered around them, bringing starters, then a basket of bread, then lasagna with a rich bechamel sauce.

And wine. He brought them a good deal of wine.

* * *

Luigi had gone off again, for yet another delicacy, leaving Alex clinging to the stem of her wineglass with a death grip and maintaining an expression she prayed didn't savor too much of boredom. In her peripheral vision she saw Ray walk in, a rather fruity brunette more or less surgically attached to him. It was in fact the same woman who could not be pried from the Guv's table throughout the speed-dating event.

They settled themselves into one of Luigi's dimmer corners, where the brunette promptly snaked her hand under the table, to accomplish God knew what with Raymondo. Well, there was _a lot_ of that going around.

Meanwhile Alex was finally giving up the effort to appear interested in what James was saying -- she'd mentioned her time in Virginia, and somehow opened the floodgates for him to reveal his every last thought on the Reagan administration in general and the CIA in particular -- and had taken advantage of the distraction to cast the occasional glance at at the door, the better to monitor new arrivals and, when her line of focus grew careless, Ray and his date. Oh, that woman was simply unbelievable. Alex wondered if Luigi would call the police, or if he would remember that Ray _was_ the police, and call it even.

Still, the very sight of Ray gave her an idea, and as soon as the brunette had vanished into the ladies', and James had paused for breath, Alex excused herself to say hello to a colleague, and moved as rapidly across the room as the sodden boots would allow. All at once she was seized by a particularly insane thought of vaulting right into Ray's lap -- that would _really_ put paid to any misguided hopes James had -- but she didn't want to show him up, or mislead Ray, or risk the wrath of the brunette. Bloody woman wouldn't take well to competition -- although, for all Alex knew, she could be scouting for additional victims outside the gents'.

"Ray. How are you keeping?"

"Never better," he said, winking.

"This place -- it keeps drawing us like moths to the flame. Speaking of which, Ray, have you seen the Guv tonight?"

"I don't think anyone's going to see the Guv tonight. At least not standing up." No one in CID could match Ray in a meaningful leer. "Needed an early night."

"Did he?"

"Yeah. Won't see him again for the rest of the weekend, I reckon."

Alex forced herself to smile, though she actually felt like crying.

"Looks like you done all right for yourself and all," said Ray, nodding towards James.

"Oh, he's just a friend. Listen, Ray, if you should -- "

But his attention had been drawn to the other side of the room, and Alex could guess, from his expression of lewd anticipation, that the brunette was arriving for the second course.

He tore his eyes away long enough to look back up at Alex. "I think I'll make an early night of it meself," he said, with another meaningful smile. "Lot of that going around."

"It's a global pandemic, apparently," said Alex dryly, before turning on her heel. She was not about to hang about for introductions.

* * *

"The marinated mushrooms -- they were satisfactory, _signor_?"

"Utterly delicious," said James warmly. He cast a glance at Alex, who chimed in, "They do the most wonderful things with sauces here."

"That is very kind of you, _Signorina_ Drake. And may I say you look wonderful tonight. Radiant."

"Thank you, Luigi. Of course I've been marinated a bit myself -- in the very finest English rain." _And subsequently pickled in your best red_.

Luigi laughed politely. "Shall I bring you anything else? Some cappuccino, perhaps --"

"No!" Alex was horrified at the shrillness of her voice, and how both Luigi and James flinched at the noise. She spoke again, more softly, and with a considerable effort. "I only meant that the wine's lovely." She lifted her glass again, as though in salute.

"Perhaps in a few minutes," said James to Luigi, _sotto voce_.

"_Buono_." And with that Luigi discreetly vanished.

James turned back to Alex with a smile. "What a nice bloke."

"Yes."

"And he's right, you know."

"What about?"

"You do look radiant."

"Must be all that exercise," said Alex, half into her wineglass. "And rain."

"I mean it. You look beautiful, Alex."

"I did want today to be special."

"It was. It is." James made a move to clasp her hand again, but Alex was already leaning her chin against that same hand, and studying her wineglass critically.

"Got a new dress for it. Looked really nice."

"I noticed that."

"You would, wouldn't you?" said Alex. "You're trained to notice things." She set down her glass and began to sing a wobbly, raspy voice.

"As coroner, I must aver, I thoroughly examined her!"

"What the bloody hell was that?"

"**The Wizard of Oz**. The Munchkin song," giggled Alex, picking up her wineglass again. "No, I tell a lie," she said, with mock seriousness. "It's _a_ Munchkin song. The song of the Munchkin coroner." She squinted at him. "Are _you_ a Munchkin coroner, James? Hang about, that can't be. Too tall for it. You'd never get past the casting director." Again she dissolved into giggles.

Across the room Shazzer was arriving with a couple of her girlfriends, and she waved at Alex but did not come over. James looked over his shoulder, caught Shaz's eye, and she waved back at him too, and smiled, a curiously sad smile.

The very sight of Shazzer somehow left Alex feeling strangely lonely. Was it even possible to be lonely in a room full of people?

"Are you all right?" James's voice seemed to come from a great distance away, though at the same moment Colin Hay was fairly shouting through the speakers – no, directly into Alex's _brain_ --

_Do you come from a land down under_

_Where beer does flow and men chunder?_

"Alex_?"  
_

"Excuse me." She rose precipitately from the table and bolted for the ladies', only getting through the door, and to the sink, just in time.

It seemed an age before she stopped retching and was able to stand upright again. She looked in the mirror, at her ghostly face, her smudged eye makeup, the damp wisps of hair on her forehead.

"Oh, my God." She switched on the tap and began rinsing the sink and, mercifully enough, had made some progress before someone opened the door of the ladies'.

It was Shazzer. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Fine." Alex drew a breath. "Just a bit of a dodgy stomach," she added, and began tidying up around the sink.

"You must have eaten something that had gone off. I'll tell Luigi --"

"No!" Alex was unable to avoid a note of panic, and winced at the volume of her own voice. "No, that won't be necessary, Shaz." She didn't want to hurt Luigi's custom on top of everything else. "And it wasn't the food anyway."

"Maybe you've got that virus that's going round," said Shaz, genuinely sympathetic. "Chris had it a while back, and Ray too."

"I'll be fine," said Alex in a businesslike fashion, washing her hands, then turning to the mirror again to repair her makeup. She still looked very pale, but almost presentable enough to show her face in the dining room.

Presently Shazzer emerged from one of the stalls and came to the sink to wash her hands just as Alex was brushing her disheveled hair back into place.

"Ma'am --"

"Yes, Shaz?"

" -- I know you're feeling poorly and all, but you look gorgeous."

"Oh, please."

"No, you do. Really."

"Thanks, Shaz."

"It's a beautiful dress," she said, turning off the tap. "Wish I could wear something like that."

"Well, it was a special occasion." Emphasis on the _was_.

"Are you going to be all right, ma'am? Do you need something?"

"I'm fine, Shaz. I'll be fine."

"All right then. Well, I'd best be getting back to my friends." But Shazzer didn't move, and Alex was lucid enough to know what was coming next.

"You haven't seen Chris tonight, have you?"

"Chris? No, no. He wasn't here when James and I sat down. Ray came in, though."

"Yeah. He's already left with that woman," said Shaz, giggling slightly.

"Well, I'd best be getting back. 'night, ma'am."

"Good night, Shaz."

* * *

Alex had dreaded the prospect that awaited her when she emerged from the ladies', but to her surprise the bustle and noise were no longer particularly oppressive. Her head was beginning to clear, and Al Stewart's "Time Passages" was bouncing along cheerfully as she made her way back to the table.

_You reach out your hand, but you're all alone...__._

She caught sight of James_, _seated by himself at the table, contemplating his wineglass with an expression of either dejection or annoyance -- she couldn't decide which.

_I know you're in there; you're just out of sight..._

James looked up and saw her and, if he didn't quite smile, looked more concerned, and exhausted, than annoyed.

"Are you all right?"

"Better," she said truthfully. "Look, I'm really sorry --"

"No, that's quite all right. Something's going round just now. Bloke at the lab got it the other week. Still, you don't want to take chances."

"No."

"In fact I expect you'll want an early night."

"Yes. I think that would be best." Alex said it softly. "And I want to apologize, really I do."

"It's fine." He said it in a tight, formal voice, and Alex would have disliked him for it if he hadn't looked so disappointed and hurt. She laid her hand on his, and if he didn't pull away, he also didn't clasp it as he might have done before.

"Thank you. It was a lovely day, in spite of the rain, but we neither of could have done anything about that."

"No." He was still forcing himself to smile.

"As for the rest, well, maybe I shouldn't have had all that wine and rich food, especially after the coffee."

"Perhaps not."

"Though, to be honest, I still regret not tasting that chocolate gateau." She squeezed James's hand. "Well, I'd best take myself out of the fray here," she said, with a glance about the restaurant.

"Will you be all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I will." Impulsively she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Good night."

"Good night, Alex."

"And thank you, James."

"My pleasure." His smile was, if anything, even sadder than Shazzer's.

* * *

The unadulterated hell of going about in soaked boots was at last over. Alex wasn't certain her feet would ever be warm again, or even regain the slightest sensation, but it was heaven to see them once more.

Now for the dress, which suddenly seemed more form-fitting than she remembered. For a few minutes she struggled and wriggled and twisted her way out of it and, once freed, considered throwing the thing out the window, the better to be rid of a painful reminder of the day.

Still, there was really no sense punishing a piece of cloth. Maybe she'd wash it and put it in the back of her closet. Or give it to Shazzer.

Or maybe there would come a day when she'd want to put it on again herself.

* * *

For the third time that day Alex studied herself in the mirror. With her face washed clean of makeup, and her damp hair combed into simple bob, and her body encased in a fresh pair of pajamas, she looked curiously young, like a little girl being sent off to bed. This wasn't how she had meant to spend her evening -- alone, in her flat, and for the most part in the bathroom, repairing all the damage.

Still, there was nothing for it but to put the kettle on, then the telly. She had just done the one and was about to ease herself onto the couch and do the other when the pounding began -- not in her head this time, but on the door.

"Open up! Police!"

The _bastard._ He wouldn't. He _wouldn't_ --

He had. Alex swung the door open for Gene Hunt -- jacket open, tie askew, a hand on either side of the door frame.

"'ello, Bolls."

* * *

**To be continued...  
**

* * *

**A/N:** "The Love Song of J. Afred Prufrock" was written by T.S. Eliot.

Meinhardt Raabe (1915-2010) acted (and Billy Bletcher sang) the part of the Munchkin coroner in the 1939 film **The Wizard of Oz,** songs written by Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg.

"Down Under" was written by Colin Hay and Ron Strykert.

"Time Passages" was written by Al Stewart and Peter White.


	2. The Diagnosis

**Originally this had been a one-shot, but it has grown into a three-parter, mostly due to A) the characters taking things ****over and B) my struggling with the tone and dialogue.  
**

**Many, many thanks to everyone** **who has been reading, reviewing, signing up for alerts, and adding this story to the favorites lists, and I'd like to mention blubbubblue ****and ignatz in particular.** Thanks as well to theHuntgoeson and Solo Lady for their steadfast encouragement.

**Weirdly enough, my A2A muse is just getting started -- now, towards the end of the show's final season -- and I've got multiple stories in development. I always was a refugee from the law of averages.**

**One short chapter follows this one...  
**

**

* * *

**

Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Drake, Gene Hunt, or anyone and anything connected with **Ashes to Ashes**. The story is set after episode 2 of season 3, and for my purposes I've assumed the 1983 election has just taken place.

* * *

"You 'ave the lurgy, you 'ave. I know what you need. Come on." Gene Hunt to Alex Drake, series 1, episode 6.

* * *

**A Lot of That Going Around**

**Chapter 2: The Diagnosis  
**

**

* * *

**

"Well?"

"Nice to see you too, Bolly. You going to let me in?"

"Suit yourself," she said, stepping aside. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Luigi's doing."

"Oh, God." Alex put a hand to her forehead. "How much did he tell you?"

"'e's told me sod all, Bolls. I asked 'im where you were tonight and 'e sighed, just like you did."

"_Dio mio_."

"Too right. Didn't tell me you'd fallen into Nick Soames' pajamas, though," he added, looking her up and down.

Alex started to laugh and, once she started, could not stop. "I suppose," she said, gasping for breath as another giggle fit started, "I suppose it is preferable to having an immensely large wardrobe fall on me." She began laughing again, and kept at it until she collapsed on the couch with an exhausted little sigh.

"Glad to see I 'aven't lost my touch," said Gene, sitting down beside her, and smiling for the first time since he'd shown up.

"You have no idea. Best laugh I've had all day."

"Probably needed it, Bolls, given the state of you --"

"Oh, thank you. Thank you very much indeed."

" -- looking like you lost your last friend. Where is 'e, by the way?"

"Where is who?" she asked perversely. "My last friend?"

"Romeo. Lover boy. The Magnificent One. Or is it The Magnificent 'alf?"

"If you mean James, he's gone home."

She said it softly, almost regretfully, but if Gene registered the tone of her voice, he gave no indication. "Left already?" He snorted. "Bloody 'ell, Bolls, you don't waste any time. 'Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.' I 'ope you let the poor sod get 'is trousers on before tossing 'im out with Luigi's rubbish."

"How dare you." She stood up from the couch abruptly -- a bad decision, that, given the residual effects of the wine, but, wobbly as she was, she headed straight for the door and yanked it open. "Right. I've had enough of your oh-so-valuable company tonight, Mr. Hunt, so you can just piss off."

Gene's eyes flickered, and he seemed on the verge of saying something, then evidently thought the better of it. He got to his feet and came to the door, then paused a moment right before Alex. Again he seemed about to speak, and again he changed his mind.

But as he was going out, he turned to her at the last.

"'night, Bolls." He said it quietly.

* * *

Alex felt no need to slam the door behind him, though she did shut it firmly, and threw the bolt for good measure.

She didn't linger there, either, or allow herself to consider calling Gene back. In the kitchen a boiling kettle was claiming her attention, though by then she had lost all interest in having a cup of tea and simply turned off the stove and went back to the living room, and the television.

She had only just settled herself in when the knocking began again. It was softer this time, and unaccompanied by bellowing, but she nevertheless knew at once who it was, and got up and unlocked the door.

Gene Hunt, take two -- no smile for her, but no scowl either, and this time he hadn't draped himself against the doorway but stood, his weight balanced on both feet, a few steps back.

"Peace offering, Bolly," he said, holding out a bottle of wine, and it was most assuredly not a sample of the house rubbish.

Gene, the wine, the doorway, and everything else dissolved into a blur before her eyes. "That is just about the last thing on this bloody planet that I needed!"

"Bolls?" said Gene, genuinely flummoxed.

"No, no, not the gesture itself," said Alex, still crying yet somehow laughing at the same time. "Just that it's more wine. Come in," she added, opening the door wider. "Come in."

"Thought there must be something in the water round 'ere," said Gene, in his accustomed tone. "Luigi was in a fair way to burst into tears 'imself when I asked for a bottle. Bloody emotional Italian." He set the bottle on the coffee table and turned to Alex. "You all right, Bolly?"

"Fine, fine," she said, catching her breath and bending down to switch off the telly. "I was just going to make some tea. Will that do for you, or do you want something stronger?"

"Tea's fine. Ta."

"Have you eaten?" she said over her shoulder as she went to put the kettle on. "I can make you some eggs or --"

"Oi, Fanny Craddock, 'old your fire," said Gene, following Alex into the kitchen. "A sandwich'll do me. Don't want those jim-jams going up in flames." He eyed the pajamas critically. "Blimey, Bolls, you _are_ in there somewhere?"

She looked down at herself. "Oh, I'm definitely in there, just out of sight. Closest thing to a burqa I could find in London."

"There are berks all over London, Bolly."

"Oh, never mind." She was aware he was watching her as she switched on the kettle and got out the sandwich makings. "Put some music on, if you'd like," she said, nodding at the radio.

"Anything in particular?"

"Your choice."

He turned on the radio. The very first thing they heard was Frederica von Stade, right in the middle of "Voi che sapete." That might have done for Alex, but Gene had other ideas and advanced through several broadcasts, passing over "Good Lovin'" from the Young Rascals and "A Bad Case of Loving You" by Robert Palmer before deciding on a jazz program. Alex heard the bass line for "Fever" and waited for the vocal.

"As I live and breathe, Miss Peggy Lee," said Gene, nodding his approval, but not, Alex was grateful to see, lapsing into an embarrassing display of finger-snapping.

Still, the song raised the temperature in the room noticeably, though neither of them said anything until Gene came over to where Alex was putting the finishing touches on his sandwich.

"You going to tell me what 'appened, Bolls?"

"Not much to tell," she said, taking out tea mugs and an unopened packet of chocolate biscuits.

"Did 'e 'urt you?"

"No!" She turned to look at Gene, and saw by his expression that he hadn't been trying to wind her up. "No, he was actually rather sweet. Talked me more or less into a stupor, though. Tell me, why is it that men find the sound of their own voices so relentlessly fascinating?"

"I don't know, Bolls. Maybe it's the novelty of getting a word in edgewise."

"Now _that_ is a stereotype," said Alex, arranging biscuits on a plate.

"What is?"

"That women chatter away like magpies."

"Strewth, Bolly."

"And that men are all the strong silent type? Another myth."

"Bollocks."

"Pure cinematic fantasy," she said silkily, shoving the plate into Gene's hands. "You're going to tell me Ray isn't always rabbiting on about something? And Chris?"

"Point taken," muttered Gene. "So this bloke could talk the 'ind leg off a donkey. Probably wanted to impress you, Bolls."

"Very psychologically astute, Mr. Hunt," purred Alex, tea mugs in hand, leading the way back into the living room.

"_And_ get into your knickers, not that you did much to encourage 'im," he added, frowning. "I've seen more alluring attire on nuns."

"Oh, give me some credit," said Alex, lowering herself onto the couch. "In point of fact, I looked rather nice -- lovely new dress, my best boots. Pity you weren't there to see it," she added, watching his face settle into a glower. "Mind you, the rain took care of all that."

"So you got your kit off."

"Not just then, no," said Alex. She could feel herself blushing. "In fact I wasn't about to give James the wrong impression, so I suggested we have a friendly glass of wine -- downstairs. It seemed a safe enough plan." She sighed. "But then it turned into dinner. James kept ordering starters, pasta, and everything else on the menu, and Luigi kept bringing it, and I kept drinking."

"And got thoroughly pissed."

"Not completely, no, but I was, as the saying goes, somewhat the worse for wine. Not the best of aphrodisiacs."

"Oh, pull the other one, Bolls. Most blokes would 'ave got you upstairs and 'orizontal."

"Yes. Well, James is not 'most blokes,'" said Alex, forming inverted commas in midair.

"Blimey." Gene's eyes gleamed with disbelief. "'e's Jimmy bloody Stewart, from the sound of things."

"_And_ I showed him up," said Alex. "In fact I was rather insufferable. Kept going on about **The Wizard of Oz**."

"So 'e didn't take you over the rainbow."

She was blushing again; she could feel it. "No."

"Might 'ave at least tried, Bolly, even if you'd kitted yourself out as the Wicked Witch of the West or, worse yet, in one of Maggie Thatcher's libido-annihilating suits."

"Maybe I didn't want him to." But Alex couldn't suppress a smile, and the smile held on until a sharp whistling came from the kitchen and made her jump. "There's the kettle." She got up from the couch, and Gene followed after her.

"So this Coburn bloke --"

She knew what was coming. "Yes."

"You going to see 'im again?"

"I shouldn't think so."

Gene nodded, and waited for a decent interval. "Your decision or 'is?"

"Mine. Probably his too, though he didn't say anything about it. He looked really hurt, though."

"Missed 'is chance with you, Bolls."

"Do you think?"

"Yeah. All about timing, this life."

"I can't honestly say timing would have helped us," said Alex, sighing again. "I think we were just a non-starter. Nobody's fault, really.

"Of course I could have done without the self-absorption, but that's hardly a hanging offense. In fact it was nothing at all compared to what we have to look forward to -- reality television, webcams, 'social media,'" she said, waggling her fingers again. "Thousands of perfectly audible and unspeakably boring mobile phone conversations in every corner of London."

"Don't follow you, Bolls, not that that's anything new."

"Never mind," she said, putting the lid on the teapot. "Still, that's what we all want, isn't it? To be seen, to be heard, to be _known._"

"Nobody knows anyone, Bolly."

"No. Not even those we love the most." She said it with the painful clarity of someone who had actually tested the hypothesis. Had there been any relationship that had not shifted on its axis, anyone who had not concealed an unwelcome, perhaps nigh-unbearable truth from her? Peter. Dad. Mum. And Evan, of course.

Still, there was Molly -- stubborn, outspoken, spirited Molly. But even she, in time, realized Alex, would prove elusive, unknowable, certainly changeable, not because she was any less beloved, but because she was herself, she was separate. It was another inescapable, even more painful truth that lay before her.

Bloody Gene Hunt. He _would_ make her face up to that. Well, the hell with him. He wasn't going to take that Molly, _her_ Molly, away from her just yet, not while she still -- not while --

"Earth to Bolls."

"Sorry, just got lost in thought there." Alex realized she was still clutching the handle of the teapot. "What were we talking of?"

"'anging offenses."

"No, no, not that" she said, thinking back. "Self-absorption. And knowing and being known." She passed Gene a mugful of tea. "Well, in any event, James and I hardly know each other at all, never mind in the biblical sense."

_Didn't stop you before._ Gene didn't say it aloud, but she could guess he might have done, in another time. Not tonight, though, God bless him.

"You've changed your tune."

_Ah. There it was. _Alex had a sudden miserable flashback to a frenetic, pathetic pas de deux, complete with flailing limbs and fumbling fingers, and a jumble of suspender belts, skirt zips, boxer shorts, and braces. Red braces. What the _hell_ had she been thinking?

"Please tell me you're not going to throw that in my face again, particularly after two years."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Bolls."

_Especially since you're hardly a saint in that regard yourself._ But she wasn't going to say it, and neither would Gene.

"Not exactly a saint meself, am I?"

Alex blinked. "No." But she smiled. "Anyway, I liked James. I don't doubt he liked me, at least at first. But -- well, that isn't exactly love."

"Love?" snorted Gene. "You know what your problem is, Bolly?"

"Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

"You believe all the romantic bollocks," he went on, as though she hadn't said anything. "Destiny. 'You can't help who you fall in love with.'"

"You can't," said Alex softly.

"Come on, Bolls. Mac believed that and all, and look where it got 'im."

"Oh, well, if you're comparing me to Mac -- "

"Of course not I'm not, Miss Twisted Bollyknickers, but some nice bloke takes you out, tries to do the right thing, and all of a sudden you're not in Kansas anymore."

"Yes. Well, I crossed that rainbow long ago, Gene."

"Just what is it you want, Bolls?" asked Gene, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into the couch. "Someone with a bloody first from Oxford and a standing invitation to tea at Desmond Tutu's?"

"Definitely not -- well, the tea with Desmond Tutu part _would_ be nice, but that's not strictly necessary.

"To answer your question seriously, I want what everyone else wants."

"Surprise me, then, Bollyknickers. What is it we all want?"

She might have told him everything then. She might have. Instead she surprised even herself.

"_Life._"

Something in his gaze softened. "And that's why we're coppers, Alex, you and me," he said quietly. "That's why we do it. All about life."

_And love._ She didn't say it. Perhaps she didn't need to say it. What he said was true, though. It _was_ life. Why do anything, really, but for life, and for love?

That was what had informed Mum's work, whatever Alex had learned about her subsequently, whatever they'd said about her. It had been all about life, all about love. She had meant to do _such things_, Caroline Price had; she had truly meant to --

"Oi, Bolly. Bolly."

"What? Sorry. Sorry," Alex sniffed.

"Didn't mean to make you cry." Gene ground his cigarette into the ashtray. "Come 'ere, you dozy mare." One long arm went about her, and she fell against his side. For a moment she didn't say anything, didn't do anything but lean into him. It had been a long time, a _very_ long time...

In the kitchen the radio was still playing, something smooth, delicate and dreamy -- Ella Fitzgerald, Alex thought, as she closed her eyes.

* * *

_To be continued..._

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* * *

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**A/N: Things I found out on my way to looking up other things: It turns out Dean Martin beat David Bowie, _by several decades_, with the WBTYM lyric. Oh, the power of the Internets...**

**Anton Myrer's The Last Convertible was the inspiration for Gene's "over the rainbow" quip.**


	3. The Cure

**This really is the final chapter -- in fact the third chapter of something I'd intended to be only a one-shot and instead wound up struggling to complete. Perhaps I'll even have to keep rewriting this until I get it right.  
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**Many thanks to everyone who has been reading along, particularly those who have been offering reviews and signing up for alerts and/or adding this story to your favorites, and in that regard I'd like to give a shout-out to liverdoc (Good catch on the wardrobe comment).  
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**I've written the outlines and/or first drafts of several other LOM/A2A stories, so this shouldn't be my last in the genre -- assuming, of course, that the muse is not left in a whimpering heap on the floor following the final episode of series 3.**

**Special thanks to Jan for being a great listener, and for inspiring one of the key themes of this chapter.**

Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Drake, Gene Hunt, Ray Carling, Luigi, or anyone and anything connected with **Ashes to Ashes**, and moreover I wrote this while reviewing series 1 and _without _allowing myself to get caught up (yet) with series 3. Hence the tone. But I hope you enjoy.

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* * *

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"I'm everywhere, Bolly. I was needed, and I was there." Gene Hunt to Alex Drake, **Ashes to Ashes**, series 1, episode 8.

* * *

**A Lot of That Going Around**

**Chapter 3: The Cure**

_Some day in the future, I will think back on this, on Ella Fitzgerald playing on the radio, and Gene with his arm around me, and __this ineffable sense of security.__ I've never felt so safe, not since I was a child..._

"Thought you'd gone to sleep on me there, Bolls."

"No," Alex murmured, her head resting still against his chest. She_ was _just a touch drowsy, less from the after-effects of the wine than from the intoxicating music, and the comfort of being held, of leaning against Gene's reassuringly solid form. She ran her hand across the smooth fabric of his shirt, breathed in his scent -- oh, God, let time stop here, please, _now_, just for a while.

But she knew they couldn't stay like that for the rest of the evening, that eventually one of them would make a move and shatter whatever it was that had just happened between them. She had loved the moment, loved it for itself, but anything more was impossible.

She patted Gene on the chest before pulling away from him and easing herself into an upright position. "Well," she said casually. "I think I could do with another cup of tea."

"Yeah." Gene made a lunge for his discarded jacket, then stood up abruptly.

"You're not leaving?" said Alex. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded plaintive.

"Leaving? No, no." Gene, looming above her, was curiously unsteady on his feet, for all that he had shown up on her doorstep decidedly sober, and since then had been drinking nothing stronger than tea. "Just need a slash, Bolls," he added, red-faced, cocking his head in the direction of the bathroom.

"Oh. Right."

"Won't need a police escort for that," he added.

"I'll leave you to it, then." She eased herself off the couch and got up to go into the kitchen.

* * *

The jazz program had moved on from Ella Fitzgerald, and the spell had definitely been broken. Alex filled the kettle while absently listening to the announcer drone on, in his dry, passionless voice, about the previous and upcoming selections and singers. She wished he would just stop talking and put on the next recording; as a radio host, he was proving more an unwelcome interruption than a soothing presence.

She was also disconcerted to realize that Gene was taking a surprisingly long time in the bathroom. Maybe Shazzer and James had been right and there _was_ something going around. Perhaps Gene would bow out early, unless she offered him the sofa for the night.

She certainly couldn't have him anywhere else, not as long as Elaine Downing was in the picture.

* * *

The memory of that gateau she'd done without earlier inspired Alex to take out the package of chocolate biscuits again, and she was just rummaging through the cupboard when she heard a crisp, clear, but distinctly feminine voice issuing forth from the radio.

_Just stop thinking of all the things that haven't happened yet, or might happen, or ought to have happened. _

It couldn't be. She had never --

_Be happy now, in this moment. __Be happy, Alex._

In an instant Alex had crossed the kitchen and taken hold of the radio. "Mum?"

"And now we have something very rare indeed, a recording of Kurt Weill's 'September Song,' performed by --"

She was too late. There was nothing left for her but the cool, mannered delivery of the announcer, then the rather tinny sound of a vintage record. With tears of frustration, Alex set the radio down again. For just a moment -- it had been just _for a moment_ --

"Now then, Bolly, I thought you weren't the domestic sort." Gene walked into the kitchen with a lighter, more energetic step than he'd used earlier, and no suggestion at all that he was feeling poorly.

"I'm not," said Alex, discreetly brushing away a tear, not about to let him catch her crying three times in one evening. She picked up the packet of biscuits. "Just had a craving. Can I interest you in some more tea, or will you have that 'something stronger,' now?"

"Tea's fine, Bolly. And I wouldn't say no to another biscuit. You 'aven't got any Garibaldis, 'ave you?" he asked, almost wistfully. "Or pink wafers?"

"Sorry, just chocolate digestives. My talents as a hostess are found wanting again."

"Not at all, Bolls." Gene leaned up against the counter and watched her as she saw to the tea and biscuits.

"So," said Alex, "you've heard the whole sad story of my day. Let's hear about yours. How _is_ the lovely Elaine?"

"Fine, last I 'eard."

"You_ heard_?" she said, pausing in mid-stride on her way to the refrigerator. "Doesn't she tell you things herself? Or do you do it all by smoke signals?"

"It's been a couple of weeks, Bolls."

"I thought she was your newest conquest. The latest victim of the Gene Genie charm."

"I took her out once or twice, " said Gene, folding his arms. "End of."

"But Ray said --"

"Ray says a lot of things, most of 'em rubbish. You're supposed to be a detective, Bolly."

The words stung, but Alex couldn't let another painful subject drop, not just yet. "I liked her. So did Luigi."

"Yeah, she's a classy girl, is Elaine."

"And we both saw how much she liked you. In fact everyone did."

"Yeah."

"But?" prompted Alex.

"But nothing, Bolls. Made a change to meet a woman who's honest about her interest." He held Alex's gaze. "No games."

"But?"

"Like I said, she's classy. Deserves the best."

"Oh, and that's where you came in, I suppose."

Gene stared back at her. "'ow do you reckon that?"

"Well, since you -- since she -- "

"Spit it out, Bolls."

"She wanted you."

He ran a hand through his hair. "She made it clear what she wanted, Bolly."

'Yes, I think we've established that."

"And I couldn't give it to 'er."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What?" He realized what he had said, and turned red. "Oh, there's no problem there, Bolls. Everything correct, accounted for, and in good working order. Excellent working order, in fact."

"Too much information, Gene!"

"Never 'eard any complaints, Bolly. Quite the reverse. In fact my eardrums still 'aven't recovered from all the -- "

"Stop it! You're beginning to sound like Billy Crystal." Alex slammed the cupboard shut. "And we were talking about Elaine --"

"Yeah. Well, she's a posh bird -- "

"Sounds promising enough."

"-- makes a good living --"

"Again, promising."

" -- and I'm a copper. Bit of rough."

"Why should that be a problem?"

"She wants to enjoy 'erself _now_, Bolls. Get out a bit more. Sunny beaches. Golf 'olidays."

"And?"

"You ever calculate the distance between Fenchurch East and Fluffyville, Inspector?"

"I don't follow you."

"She's Yente the Matchmaker. Sells people dreams. Romantic bollocks. I, on the other 'and -- "

"You deal with the nightmares," finished Alex softly.

"Something like that."

Alex smiled at him. "And you're not ready to hang up your tin star yet."

"Yeah. Got a few good years left in me, Bolly."

"Of course you do," said Alex, surprised to find tears stinging her eyes again. She laid a hand on Gene's arm. "More than 'a few.'"

* * *

"Poor Elaine," said Alex as they made their way back into the living room. "I saw the way she looked at you -- just as though you were a chocolate gateau." _E__ven made a start on nibbling you._

"Not on the menu anymore, Bolly," said Gene matter-of-factly.

"Not even to fulfill a craving?" teased Alex, just for the opportunity to see Gene blush _and_ pout. "Every woman needs a little indulgence now and then."

"I'm not exactly flavor of the month, am I?"

"No?" A thought crossed Alex's mind. "Just a moment. Are you saying that Elaine dumped _you_?"

"Gene Hunt," he said testily, "does not get dumped."

"All right, all right. She met someone else, then."

"Too right, Miss Marple."

"It's no one's fault," said Alex gently. "All for the best."

"Nice enough bloke," continued Gene stoically, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Golf-playing type. Does something or other for Marks & Spencer. Not a copper," he added, lighting up.

"And so that's that," said Alex. "Would you just _look_ at the two of us? Here we are on a Saturday night, a regular lonely hearts club."

"Speak for yourself, Bolly."

"Maybe it's not so bad," said Alex, picking up her tea mug. "I _had_ a date, and you -- you were fighting them off for a while there."

"Fighting what off, Bolls?"

"Women."

"Bollocks."

"There was that brunette at the speed-dating evening," observed Alex wickedly, drawing the expected snort from Gene. "Oh, come on! She fancied you."

"She fancied me todger. And any other bloke's. Desperation is Raymondo's department, not mine. What?" he said, the line between his brows deepening.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Why the smile?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing."

"You're a regular Cheshire Cat, you are, Bolls."

"It's nothing. So you don't like brunettes, then," she said, with false innocence.

"Didn't say that. Just don't want to be collected like a bloody scalp."

"Control. You have to make the first move. The Manc Lion loves the hunt --"

"Correction: The Manc Lion _is_ the Hunt."

"Yes. Well, I'll tell you something about lions, shall I?" said Alex, setting down her mug.

"What's that, Bolly?"

She leaned towards Gene and lowered her voice to a whisper. "It's the lionesses who do most of the hunting, Guv. The females_._"

"Bollocks."

"It's true. Perhaps for the human species as well." When Gene had no reply for that, Alex continued. "So, just to summarize," she said, leaning back into the couch. "Elaine laid her cards on the table, and you folded."

"'ang about, Bolls --"

"And that woman you met through Elaine laid _her_ cards on the table -- "

"Bloody well almost laid_ me_ on the table --"

" -- and you ran for miles."

"Unfair, Bolly. Didn't fancy the bird."

"All right." Alex smiled. "Well, this has been an evening of revelations. Here I am, going about thinking you were Elaine Downing's personal love slave -- "

"I'm nobody's slave, Bolly, love or any other sort. I'm a free man."

"You and Patrick McGoohan," she said teasingly, but she didn't miss Gene's emphasis. _A free man_...

"Anyway, Bolls, didn't seem worth mentioning. Didn't know you cared."

* * *

Alex's head was clearing nicely, and the tea had been just what the doctor ordered. Even her appetite was recovering -- she'd managed a biscuit, and sincerely regretted an entire day's worth of self-inflicted damage, via the caffeine and alcohol. Next time she'd simply enjoy the meals, if there ever was to _be_ a next time, with anyone.

But Mum was right; it wasn't time to think of the future, just the moment.

In this particular moment, though, Gene didn't seem particularly happy, or even sated, for all that he'd gulped down a cup or two of tea in between cigarettes, and inhaled the rest of the chocolate biscuits with the efficiency of a vacuum cleaner.

"You all right, Bolly?" he said now, one arm slung over the back of the sofa.

"Much better, thank you." She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. "You?"

"What about me?"

"Are you all right? Shazzer said there was a virus working its way through CID, and I thought perhaps --"

"No, no, I'm fine, Bolls. Didn't have the best day, that's all."

"What happened?"

Gene took a leisurely pull on his cigarette, and expelled a cloud of smoke. "Paperwork's been a right bastard, Bolly. D and C's on our backs. Got us going back years.

"Viv, Ray, Chris and I got stuck into it this morning. Viv was all right, did his bit, then went 'ome to the missus. Ray skived off as soon as he could. 'ad some bird waiting. Left Chris and me to the lot. By the time we were done, it was pissing down rain, and Chris's brain 'ad turned to custard. Two of us got some shepherd's pie and a couple of pints down us, and Chris took 'imself off to the pictures. Best thing for 'im."

"What about you?"

"Needed to clear me 'ead. Walked for a bit -- to St. Margaret's, Parliament Square. Stood by that statue of Churchill a while. You should go yourself sometime, Bolly, see what a _real_ 'ero looks like."

Parliament Square. If he only knew. Alex gave Gene what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. "I'd like that. In fact we ought to go together. You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

"_What_?" Gene almost dropped his cigarette.

"Our respective heroes," she said sweetly. "What did you think I meant?

"Anyway, then what?"

"Skies opened up again, so I stopped for another pint, then came over 'ere."

"Why come over here?" she asked. "Why not just stay parked at your local?"

"Told you, Bolls," said Gene, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. "Luigi sent me. Mission of mercy."

She sighed. "Luigi didn't tell you anything."

"'e didn't need to."

"And you were coming over here anyway, before you even saw him."

At that Gene looked up, and she knew from the expression on his face that she'd again struck a nerve. How long had it been since he had seemed that vulnerable in her presence? A long time. A _very_ long time.

"Thought I'd see if anyone was about."

She wasn't going to let him off so easily. "If I was about," she said quietly.

"Yeah."

"Someone to watch over me, I suppose," she said. "In fact they should write a song about that. Oh, sorry, someone already did." She turned to go back to the kitchen.

"You used to trust me, Alex. You told me once you trusted me."

She could not bring herself to turn round to face him. "Yes. Perhaps I should never have said anything. Perhaps that particular genie can't be put back in the bottle now."

"Those brains of yours never stop, do they, Bolls? Thinking about what's 'appened. What ought to 'appen. What might --"

Alex spun round. "What did you say?"

"Just let things be, Alex. For once in your life, give that 'ead of yours a rest."

"And be happy." She whispered the words.

"Didn't catch that, Bolls. What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing."

Gene stood up abruptly. "Well, I think it's time --"

"You're not going?"

"No. I was just going to say I'd have that drink now, Bolly, if you're still offering."

"Of course"

In silence the two of them went into the kitchen. She dug a bottle out of the cupboard, then stood watching as he poured himself a finger of whiskey and knocked it back, clenching his jaw afterwards, as she'd seen him do that a thousand times.

"Just what the doctor ordered, Gene?"

"Not especially." He turned to look at her. "What about you, Bolly? Ready for a good stiff one? Or maybe a drink?"

She smiled and leaned back against the counter.

"I think we both know there's nothing in that bottle for me."

* * *

"Ouch!"

"Sorry, Bolly. Grabbed those bloody pajamas instead of you."

"That was my _head_. And my shoulder. Ooh, that really hurt," said Alex.

"Let's see." Gene undid several buttons and slid Alex's pajama top down on one side. "Going to be a bruise there, Bollyknickers," he said, stroking her shoulder with his fingers and following the touch with a light kiss. "Sorry, love. Forgot the cupboard was there."

"Well, I certainly can't," said Alex. She leaned towards Gene. "And just what am I doing up here on this counter, Mr. Hunt?" she demanded with mock annoyance.

"Seemed the best place for you."

"Why? Are we playing Will and Amy Kane or something?"

"Maybe." He reached around her again, found the small of her back.

_Although Amy Kane would never sit like this_, thought Alex as Gene drew her forward till she was straddling his hips. _Not without running afoul of the censors._ She realized suddenly that the radio was still on. Another jazz vocalist, this time a baritone, was singing "Alright, Okay, You Win."

"Now then, Bollinger Knickers," said Gene, his face inches from hers. "Are you going to kiss me?"

"Well, I'm certainly not going to punch you," purred Alex, tilting her head.

"Course not, Bolls. Did that already, didn't you?"

* * *

"You taste like tobacco and whiskey and tea," she gasped, when she could draw a breath. "And chocolate biscuits."

"A regular banquet, the Gene Genie."

"'He brought me to his banqueting house,'" she murmured, half into Gene's neck, as she leaned against him, her arms round him.

"What's that, Bolly?"

"Something I heard a choir sing once. From the Bible, I think." She repeated the passage to herself -- _He brought me to his banqueting house. His banner over me was love. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. _It was the Song of Solomon. Definitely the Song of Solomon.

"Gene."

"Yeah, Bolls."

"I don't want to talk about the past, at least not now." She felt his shoulders stiffen, and his roving hands came to a stop.

Right. She would show him. She would say only what was necessary and show him the rest. Maybe then he would believe.

Alex laid her hand against Gene's face. "I don't want to think about the future, only this moment," she said, looking into his eyes. "And I know I don't want to wake up on the sofa in these awful pajamas, with nothing to look forward to but a hangover."

"Can't promise you won't 'ave a 'angover, Bolls. As for that Lawrence of Arabia tent you're wearing --"

"More like a hazmat suit --"

"'as what?" With all the places his hands were going, it was clear he'd finally located her inside the pajamas.

"We're sounding like Abbot and Costello, we are. Hazmat. Hazardous materials. Protective gear. Only I don't really need protecting, do I?"

"Oh, you do, Bolly, especially given what you get up to."

"Yes. Talking of which, I'd quite like to catch the Gene Genie virus," she murmured. "Maybe even come down with a major case of it."

"Come on, then, Bolls." He slipped an arm beneath her legs and scooped her right off the counter, and grunted as he lifted her in his arms. "Bloody 'ell. What's Luigi been feeding you?"

"Whatever Luigi's fed me is ancient history by now. Anyway, hark who's talking, Mr. Steak-and-Chips," said Alex, attempting to reach down to pat Gene's stomach.

"Oi, all baggage must remain securely stowed till we reach our final destination. No unpacking before this aircraft comes to a full and complete stop."

"I was only ascertaining," said Alex demurely, her arms about his neck, her lips inches from his, "whether everything was in the upright and locked position."

Gene's knees appeared to buckle, and for a moment she thought he was going to drop her right on the kitchen floor. But he recovered quickly.

"I mean to ascertain a few things meself, Bollyknickers. You see if I don't." And he shifted her in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen.

* * *

Saturday night was always such a good night -- so many people about, so much laughter and shouting, so many glances between lovers, or lovers that might be.

Of course there were the arguments, and sometimes the tears, and sometimes a glass fell to the floor and was shattered. But that he could endure. He could buy another wineglass. But a heart? No one could buy another heart.

A _bella signorina_ with tears in her eyes, she would cause him worry.

If her lover was a wise man, he would see those tears, and find some way to make an apology to the_ signorina._ Of course Luigi knew how best a man might make his apologies, and he prayed these English knew it as well, though sometimes he doubted that very much.

But now another Saturday night was past, all the lovers, and lovers who were to be, had gone home, and Luigi alone seemed to be the only man awake in this part of town.

Weary though he had been, he had got up at dawn, after having such dreams in the night. Once he had awakened, thinking he had heard a woman cry out. He had sat up, listened, but heard no sound. Again he had fallen asleep, and again he had awakened, this time to laughter. Surely it was laughter, the laughter of a man and a woman, of lovers. Again he waited, and listened, but there had been nothing more.

Yet even after so little rest he had risen early and made his way to Mass, to offer thanks to the good God that he was such a fortunate man. And before he left the church Luigi had stopped to light a candle. It had been years since he had done so.

Now he was walking home through the silence, and as he approached his_ trattoria_ he noticed what seemed to be a bundle of washing on the pavement, and stooped to investigate.

Pajamas.

How strange these English were, leaving pajamas lying about! Luigi looked in one direction, then another, as if he expected to see the owner walking off, possibly _nudo_, but there was no one else on the streets, not this early, and especially not on a Sunday.

He could hardly leave things so untidy, though, and, sighing and grunting, he bent to lift the pajamas from the pavement. He should take them to the Oxfam shop; even such ugly pajamas ought to accomplish some good in the world, though Luigi could not imagine anyone actually wanting to buy them. But yes, he would take them to the Oxfam shop.

First, though, he must have them washed. After all, there was a _malattia_ going around.

**The End**

**

* * *

**

**A/N: The William Billings setting of "I Am the Rose of Sharon," particularly the version by His Majestie's Clerkes, was the inspiration for Alex's little reverie on the Song of Solomon. **

**Today's moment of synchronicity: A few hours after I posted this final chapter, I was listening to Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac. The poem for May 19th, 2010, just happened to be passages from the Song of Solomon, including a portion of what Alex quotes above.  
**


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